


The Best Laid Plans

by masongirl



Series: The best laid plans [11]
Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: (mild), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jealousy, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, POV Toye, Past Car Accident, Prosthesis, Public Display of Affection, Sexual Content, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/pseuds/masongirl
Summary: When Joe wakes up to his boyfriend's pained yelp and the smell of burning oil, he knows it's going to be a bad day. What he doesn't know is that he's about to go on a rollercoaster ride with a surprise waiting at the end.George just wants to propose.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, George Luz/Joseph Toye, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The best laid plans [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682071
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54





	The Best Laid Plans

**Monday**

When Joe wakes up to his boyfriend's pained yelp and the smell of burning oil, he knows it's going to be a bad day. He glances at the other side of the bed, and sure enough, George isn't sprawling there on top of the two hundred pillows he hoarded so far. It's six am, which is another sign pointing to the morning being a disaster and George an idiot. Grumbling at the sting of too little sleep in his eyes, Joe sits up and scans the space beside his bed. His prosthesis isn't there.

"Damn it." Joe growls, looking around helplessly like an invalid. He won't be much help if he has to hop out to the kitchen on one leg, so, as much as he hates crutches, he heaves himself up on his and starts off towards the muffled curses he hears. He hopes George made him coffee before fucking up whatever he's trying to fry in a gallon of oil.

"What are you doing?" He asks from the doorway when he spots George by the stove, with a fingertip sucked into his mouth and a dark brown mass on the plate in front of him.

George jumps a foot in the air in fright. He whirls around to cover his questionable creation and does the signature nervous laugh Joe has begun to associate with mischievous plans that got busted. He dreads the kind of plan that would result in George being up at dawn making… "Pancakes?"

George gives the obviously drippy dough a mournful look. "Chocolate chip. Your favourite."

It _is_ Joe's favourite, which must be why his stomach growls at him not to leave the rest of their breakfast up to George's mediocre cooking skills. "Let me don my shit and I'll help."

"No, I can do it. It's fine, first ones always come out weird. You just lie back down and pretend you slept through this." The protests come flooding out of George's mouth. He's suspiciously insistent on Joe staying in bed, and it makes Joe wonder if he wants to share some bad news and this is a scheme to placate Joe's volatile temper. His mood takes another hit.

"I'm awake." He mutters. Waking up sucks, he's not going through it twice. "Did you burn your finger?"

"Just a little bit." George holds it up, pouting.

It may be the ungodly hour or the exaggerated plaintiveness on George's face, but Joe can't resist pressing a kiss to the reddened skin. "Be more careful, Georgie."

A lazy smirk spreads over George's lips, and his uninjured hand tickles a path down from Joe's bare chest to his belly, flirting. "A frying pan won't kill me."

"You can never know." Joe steps back from the temptation, then frowns when he spots a single red flower on a checkered plastic tray abandoned on the kitchen table. "What's the rose for?"

"Oh, that?" There's that laugh again. "Just a gift. The tray too."

"For whom?"

A second of silence follows. "Well, Lip has recovered from his pneumonia so I thought I'd give him something to celebrate."

It's an unusual assortment of presents, but who knows, maybe Lipton needs a tray in the office or something. George would know, he memorizes these things. How the hell he became such good friends with Joe's colleagues since the last office party, Joe doesn't know. He kind of wishes the rose was for him even though they have never given each other flowers, because the red petals just make it so… romantic. He doesn't want George to give it to Lipton, of all people. Joe doesn't say anything about this though, because he knows it's already a miracle that he has someone he can rely on when many others who suffered his fate don't. He's grateful for what he has, even if it involves getting up early and preventing natural disasters in the kitchen. He stays quiet about the rose, but his day is already ruined.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Joe’s Tuesday sucks just as much as Monday did. His new boss spends fifteen minutes standing over his shoulder, literally, not saying a single word, like a statue. It weirds Joe out and he’s swimming in sweat by the time the guy decides he saw enough and retreats to his office. Can’t they get someone normal, just once? Things have been going downhill since Winters stepped up the ladder. To make things worse, it has been raining cats and dogs all day and the storm doesn’t seem to let up anytime soon. As usual, George has the car, so Joe decides not to risk slipping on the pavement outside and stays put even when his colleagues run out for a hot meal. He waves them off. There’s enough work to do anyway, and he can still feel those unwavering eyes on his back all the way through the walls of the cubicles separating him from the boss’ room. But then, just when Joe is contemplating throwing his computer out the window, George whirls out of the elevator like a spinning top filled with a sunbeam.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He exclaims, and Joe fights the urge to duck his head. Everyone knows his boyfriend anyway - George isn’t exactly a forgettable character and he keeps tagging Joe in the dozens of silly pictures he uploads to his damn social media accounts. Joe wouldn’t be surprised if more of his colleagues knew George than him. “I come bearing gifts.”

He’s brandishing a fancy paper bag from Joe’s favourite bakery and he looks extra good today, as if he put some effort into his clothes, although it may just seem that way because Joe’s so happy to see him. He certainly didn't notice in the morning. As he gets up from his desk and grabs that damn cane he needs sometimes, he wonders if love is always like this, sudden as a punch to the gut. Surely not. “You know me.”

“I really do.” George grins, softer this time, and rocks up on his toes to give Joe a kiss. Joe cringes. Who the hell knows if the new boss is okay with PDA or not? Unfortunately, George misunderstands, and the air turns awkward in a way that it shouldn’t after six years. Something is up, Joe knows, because it’s never this easy to throw George off balance and it has been going on for days now. Flushing, George glances at the pouring rain outside, then makes a face. “Bad day, huh?”

Joe sighs and starts stirring them to the small kitchenette. “I can’t walk in that shit.”

“Me neither.” George shudders theatrically, and it makes Joe laugh. He knows it’s an effort to cheer him up, but it’s also true - he has suffered George sopping wet on a camping trip and it wasn’t pretty. It was the only time George had a meltdown since they started dating.

They sit down at the tiny table and Joe tucks in, flashing an actual smile at George to show they are okay. He really didn’t mean to pull away, it’s just, he knows he’s being watched, for whatever reason. He picks up on these things. But the guy can’t stare at him in here, so he relaxes his shoulders and listens to George’s idle thoughts, nodding or shaking his head at the appropriate places. It comforts him that he can be silent with George when he wants, that he is completely at ease even if neither of them talks. He doesn’t think he’ll ever take this for granted.

Joe lets all the stress of his morning go and concentrates on his donuts. They are filled with chocolate and he would be moaning about how good they are if he was shameless like Guarnere. He always eats them by tearing them in half first, because it satisfies him somehow to see the inside of the pastry. He has done this all his life, so it's a bit strange that George is watching this process with each donut as if this was the first time he saw it, when they have known each other for six years now and been a couple for five and a half. There's nothing that George doesn't know about him, and he's ridiculously observant too. He claims he needs to be, to perfect his impressions.

Joe’s about to ask what’s so damn interesting when he hears a door slam closed behind him and when he cranes his neck to glance out the kitchenette’s window, he spots his boss walking between the cubicles. His face falls. “Fuck. Tell me he’s not coming toward us.”

“He is.” George hums, frowning. "Is that your new boss?"

"Yeah, Ronald Speirs. Moved down from sales I think."

George’s head whips around. "Shit!" He grabs the paper bag and jumps up, almost kicking his chair over in his haste.

"Hey!" Joe reaches for him, bewildered. "There’s one more inside."

"Ugh, er, no, baby, sorry, it's mine." George rambles, looking wild, and rushes out without another glance. "Later!"

Joe’s crestfallen and utterly confused. "You don't even like it." He mutters to the empty room. Speirs stalks past him towards the elevators.

* * *

**Wednesday**

On Wednesday, Joe gasps awake when something brushes his residual limb and finds George halfway down the bed, kissing the line between his abs leading to his belly button. He’s toying with the waistband of Joe’s shorts, running his index fingers under the elastic and licking his lips. It’s the hottest thing Joe has seen all week.

"Okay?" George asks, always does, and it helps put Joe at ease when he's self-conscious. Joe hums in reply and combs his fingers through George's hair gently, pressing down with the heel of his palm. It gets him a laugh. George's hand dives into his shorts and teases him with a light stroke. "Giving me a proper salute, soldier?"

Joe bites his lip. He can't help it, he loves to be called that, or by any military rank, even likes the elaborate roleplay George puts together sometimes and having sex in a tent set up in their living room. He knows exactly what turns Joe on, and there's something scary in that, Joe thinks. He has put so much of himself into George's hands that he can't imagine sharing his life like that with anyone else. He can't imagine not being with him. It's a feeling he's been carrying for a while now, and it hits him again as George's familiar hand rubs at the stump left of his leg. Who else would touch him there with such tenderness?

"At ease. You're fine, it's all fine." George soothes him and tugs Joe's shorts out of the way. "I got you."

Joe melts into the sheets. He forces himself to breathe steadily when George lets go of him for a second to pull the blanket over his head with an impish smile. It took them the better half of a year to put their sex life back together, but George always knew how to make him relax and he does now too. He digs his thumbs into the grooves of Joe's hips to keep him steady and kisses the crease of his thigh, down to the inner side of his stump where it's so sensitive that Joe can barely stand it. And the best is that he can't see it. The blanket hides everything he doesn't want to look at, and all the touches come as a surprise. It's exquisite.

George trails his way back up and takes Joe into his mouth, deep enough to make the tingle so good that Joe shakes. His lips make slick sounds as he slides up and sucks, and his hands wrap around what he can't pull inside. He can be a terrible tease sometimes, but not today - he just licks and hums around Joe with slow twists of his fist until the pressure rises and Joe's soft grunts echo in the drowsy quiet of their bedroom. The wetness spills around him for a second of bliss, a neverending, quicksilver plateau, then there's a hint of suction, a swallow, and Joe's body turns boneless.

He sighs in satisfaction and raises himself to his elbows, not surprised to see George emerge from under the blanket with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Good fucking morning, Georgie."

"Hell yeah." George says, voice fucked rough, and they share a kiss that once would have felt deliciously dirty, but it's more comfort and affection now than insatiable desire. Six years, Jesus Christ.

When they are both too sleepy to keep their mouths locked together, George's lips stray down to Joe’s neck and press to the sensitive spot there. Joe expects him to bite, but he doesn't. He just breathes against Joe's skin and nuzzles into his warmth. It's nice when he's feeling cuddly, and Joe takes thorough advantage of that by enveloping George's waist in a hug.

"Can I ask you something?" George mumbles, and he's fumbling for Joe's hand. He sounds nervous.

"Sure." Joe smiles and kisses George's forehead, glancing at the clock, but what he sees there makes his pulse skyrocket. "Fuck, I'm going to be late!"

He wishes he could just jump out of bed, the motions are still in his mind like a knee jerk even after two years, but as it is, he scrambles to the edge of their mattress, finds a pair of clean boxers in the bedside table, then dons the prosthesis as fast as he can. He wants to continue cuddling, really fucking wants to, but he has PT this morning and he forgot. Didn't even set an earlier alarm. It's unnerving enough when he has half an hour to gear himself up in the waiting room, arriving late would be a disaster.

"What did you want to ask?" He throws a glance in George's direction while limping to the wardrobe and pulling out the first shirt he sees.

"Ah, it's not important." George chews on his thumb and stares at the pale yellow sunshine creeping in between the blinds.

Although Joe has been accused of insensitivity before, he can clearly see that something hurt his boyfriend and knows it's probably his fault. Again, he curses the fake leg that prevents him from doing what he used to _before,_ crouching in front of George and nudging him until he burst into laughter. He never got to figure out what amused George so much about that habit, but he can't easily do that now anyway, so he just sits back down on the bed and tips George's chin up. "I'm listening."

"It's nothing, really." George clears his throat and conjures up a smile, painfully fake. He scoots off the mattress and stretches, scratching his chest. Then walks away towards the bathroom. "Lip wants to get a new car and I thought you could give him some advice."

He's lying, Joe's sure of it, and the growing unease in his stomach roars to life again. Was George about to have a serious discussion with him? And maybe the blowjob was intended to ease the impact? He has been troubled lately, Joe could tell. What if… No. It would be stupid to let insecurities and his own unresolved shit cloud his mind. Perhaps it's the flat, George might want to move out, find a house or something. He's been forwarding puppy videos every other day, he probably wants one, but they don't have a garden to keep it in. _Yes, that must be it,_ Joe concludes and makes a note to look into available houses. He'd move to the goddamn Yellowstone wilderness if that made George happy.

He has been trying to brush away his worries all day, but he's still gnawing on them when Guarnere finds his way to his floor to flirt with Speirs' secretary. Don't they have any survival instincts?

"Hey Joe, how's it going?" Bill saunters up to him ten minutes later, cocky as all hell.

Joe gives him a dark look. "Just peachy, Bill. I only have five spreadsheets to sort through in the next twenty minutes and Speirs is glaring through his office window."

Bill shudders. "Had an extended lunch break, huh?"

"The hell are you going on about, I had no break since I came in."

"Don't tell me you managed to work with Mr. Chatterbox in your lap." At Joe's blank expression, he raises his eyebrows. "Luz? Your boyfriend?"

"What about him?"

"Well, he's been here today, hasn't he?"

Joe shakes his head and turns back to his work. He's glad George doesn't come here every day. Joe would never get any work done because he'd keep watching the clock waiting for him to arrive.

Bill isn't finished though. "I swear I saw him on the sixth floor."

"What?" What would George do at the sales department? What would _Bill_ do there anyway?

"He was talking to that guy, you know, the nice one." Joe glares at the idiotic description. Bill has been spending too much time with Babe lately. "The one with the scar."

"Lipton?"

"Yeah, him. Lipton gave him a hug."

Joe's blood pressure rises. It's not that he's suspicious of every person George touches - he'd go crazy in a week then - it's just… George has been talking about Lipton a lot. And he has been so strange in the past few weeks, all secretive and shit, even though he's never been good at keeping things hidden from Joe for a prolonged time. What's going on? What is George hiding?

* * *

**Thursday**

Just like Wednesday, Thursday starts off great and gets drastically worse later. George gets up an hour earlier than him to go on a mysterious errand, so Joe is alone when he walks into the kitchen. He yawns and pulls his favourite mug out of the dishwasher, taking it to the coffee machine. The corners of his lips twitch as he looks at the faded picture printed on the plain white ceramic in his hand. It's him and George on their first New Year's Eve together, stupid, carefree kids who had way too much to drink. George has a +4 Uno card taped to his forehead and Joe has never seen himself giggling like that before - he's half-convinced it's photoshop. He freakin' loves that picture.

It isn't until he reaches out to turn the machine on that he realizes there's a small, yellow note winking at him from the counter. _That's a nice mug you got on ya,_ it says. Joe huffs a laugh, closing his eyes for a second. It has been a while since George surprised him with one of these. In fact, the last time happened when he was laid up in the hospital after the second surgery, when he was coming around and it truly hit him that he will never have a right leg again. George's note just made him cry then, so he tore it up and threw the pieces on the floor. George hasn't said a word about it, but now that Joe thinks it over, he probably knows. And looks like it took him two years to dare go for it again. This time, Joe takes that sticky little paper square and puts it in the top drawer of his bedside table. It must be a sign that they've healed, he decides.

The notes pop up around him all day. On the screen of his work computer, in his wallet, tucked into the pocket of his coat, added to a surprise lunch delivery. His phone has a new lock screen, a graphic that says _remember our first kiss?_ and Joe's throat feels a little tight for a few minutes when he sees it. He racks his mind, but he knows it's not their anniversary in any sense of the concept. George has either mixed up the dates, planned something for Joe's birthday that includes all this or he's buttering Joe up in advance of a confession. Given his recent antics, Joe would put his money on the third. George has something on his chest and he's afraid to share it. It's worrying.

Then, around three in the afternoon, everything goes to shit. A stabbing, burning ache spears Joe in a place that doesn't exist and he feels like his right toes are being torn off, that the skin of his calf is splitting and his bones are breaking, flesh that isn't there. He doubles over and rests his forehead on his desk, whimpering and clenching his fists. It's not real. _Notrealnotrealnotreal._

Ten minutes later, it's over and gone, and the only indication that it happened is Joe's queasy stomach. He keeps down the bile and turns back to his work. This crap can't bring him down. However, less than an hour goes by and the phantom pain flares up again, a vicious demon Joe has no defenses against. The second wave leaves him shaky, and he may be stubborn but he's not stupid, he knows he can't focus anymore. He calls a taxi and goes home, not taking the subway like he usually insists to do.

When he enters their apartment, he finds George in a dress shirt and boxer briefs, putting candles on the nicely set kitchen table. It's suspicious as fuck, but Joe can't spare more thought to it than a hint of surprise, because the pain is building up again, cramping this time.

"Oh!" George squeaks. "You're home early."

"Don't burn down the house." Joe grunts and staggers towards the bedroom, dropping the cane after the door is closed. It lands with a dull clatter. "I'm taking a shower."

"Joe, you okay?" Comes from the other side, then George knocks.

"Fine."

"'Cause I can join you if you want -"

"I'm fucking fine." Joe snaps and collapses on the bed. His legs hang halfway off as he curls around a pillow. "Leave me alone."

George, of course, comes in anyway. The mattress dips under him as he sits beside Joe's crumpled body. "Come on, darling. Talk to me." He brushes his palm up and down Joe's back, urging him to sit up. Joe must look pretty out of it if he resorts to that pet name. "Is the leg hurting again?"

Joe just squeezes his eyes shut. He hates this, he hates this. Why does he have to go through this? Maybe he'd be better off dead, feeding worms under the ground. He gasps. "I wanna touch it but it's not there."

George takes Joe's hand and places it on his own bare knee, pressed right beside Joe's prosthesis. He curls Joe's thumb around his kneecap. "Here. No, keep your eyes closed. That's it. Did I tell you about Peacock's latest fuck-up?"

Joe takes a deep breath and concentrates on the hills and dips of bones under his palm and the jump of muscles that still have a joint to connect to. He imagines it's his and can almost sense the touch. It calms him.

"He submitted a progress report." George removes Joe's pants, then the prosthesis while he talks. It feels good to let him, that he knows how to do this for Joe and doesn't mind. "And the numbers were all wrong in it. Absolutely wild. No one could figure out where he got them from. I thought he pulled a Dike and made them up, but oh no, not goody-two-shoes Tommy. Bull scanned the source dataset and half an hour later, he got it."

He pauses for effect. "Peacock mistook the page number as part of the equation!"

Joe flashes a small smile and opens his eyes, the pain mostly gone, just like his prosthesis. George grins back and winks. "Ready for that shower?"

Joe skips dinner and turns in early. The shower made him feel significantly better, despite how tiring it was to hold onto the grab bars after the day he had. He could have gone for the tub which they bought just for him - although George uses it more often because he's a dork who loves foam and soaking with some music on - but Joe prefers to be as efficient as possible and tries to avoid swelling in his residual limb. He dozes for a few hours before George comes in and lies down facing him, not touching anywhere. Joe doesn't open his eyes, but scoots close enough that George's toothpaste-mint exhales fan his face.

"Did you really prepare a candlelit dinner?" No answer comes, and the soft breathing stops. "George."

"Yes." He replies, and it sounds like a question, as if he can't believe it himself.

"Why?"

"Well…" George swallows. "Um, Lip gave me scented candles and I wanted to try them out."

It's the wrong thing to say. Joe's strained nerves spasm and he stiffens, something nasty building in his stomach. His eyelids snap open. "You're awfully good pals with Lip."

"He's a cool guy. Helped me out a couple of times."

"With what exactly?"

"Stuff." George says, turning defensive. He's frowning. "What crawled up your ass?"

"Nothing. Just seems to me you and Lipton are helping each other out real well."

"Screw you, Joe." George hisses. "You have no reason to be a jealous asshole."

"I do have one 'cause you're not telling me anything!" Joe shoves at his shoulder.

That's the last straw. George scrambles out of bed, so frustrated that he's on the verge of tears, and throws up his hands. "What d'you expect when you're like this?"

The door slams closed a second later. Joe's not surprised that George only comes back when he thinks Joe's asleep.

* * *

**Friday**

They make peace as soon as the sun is up, but George still looks down in the dumps and he spends minutes just hugging Joe in the hallway. Like someone who's saying goodbye. It nags at Joe all day, but he's not ready to hear it if it's true, so he pretends all is fine and texts George a little heart emoji because he only does that once a leap year and he knows it would brighten George's day. The least he can do to make up for whatever kicked them so out of sorts.

Friday evening is official Xbox time with the boys at Guarnere's, and since George begged off a few days ago saying he needs to meet up with one of his siblings, it's only the three of them. Joe can't help thinking George's excuse might be a lie and Lipton is having one hell of a good time right now while Joe's holed up here listening to Bill stuff his face with Cheetos.

"Do you think George wants to break up with me?" He asks between firing rounds in their Call of Duty mission.

"Nah." Bill doesn't elaborate, it's just a definite no. He doesn't stop blowing shit up on screen.

"He's been acting weird lately. What if he's having an affair?" Joe doesn't really think George would do that to him, but his self-esteem is still recovering and he's at a loss for what else could be up. They tell each other everything. A secret kept this long must be a terrible one. Maybe, George has his eyes on a new lover, someone stable and whole like Lipton, and he feels guilty for wanting to leave Joe behind.

Bill snorts like it's a pile of bullshit. "He's probably making a movie for your birthday next week."

Joe groans. It's not that he doesn't like George's latest eccentricity, he digs it, he's a sucker for all this shit, but he doesn't want their friends to see any videos of him from before. Who needs a reminder? But if George is making a movie, he's gonna want to show it to everyone, their families, their buddies, every damn colleague they know by name and random strangers at the hospital. No, thanks.

Still troubled, but somewhat reassured by Bill's absolute certainty, Joe turns back to the game. He realizes that Babe's character hasn't moved in minutes. He looks at Babe's hunched figure at the far end of the couch, then kicks Bill's ankle. "What's wrong with him?"

"Babe?" Bill snorts. "Nothing. Boy got it bad for the doc who treated his granny's ulcer."

"Jesus."

"I know."

"Did he ask her out?"

"It's a guy, and no, they are still texting about the outlook of dear Mrs. Heffron's stomach."

"What's he smiling about then?"

Bill raises his voice to an obnoxious level. "Babe, why are you staring at your phone like a goddamn loon?"

It's enough to catch Babe's attention, and he looks up as if waking from a wet dream. "Huh? What? Oh, Gene has just told me I have Grandma's eyes."

Joe stares. "On second thought, George and I are fine."

* * *

**Saturday**

They sleep in on Saturday, the best day of the week as far as Joe's concerned. He kisses the sleep creases on George's skin and makes love to him chest to back, whispering praises into his ear because he, too, knows precisely what makes George's toes curl. The way George looks at him after that is a balm that quells all of Joe's worries. He's been stupid, of course they are fine. He should be more curious than anything else about that damn secret, really. But George resists even when Joe prods - he denies the very existence of anything strange and uses his Shifty voice to make it extra convincing. Damn if it doesn't work.

When they finally make it out of the bedroom, George puts some upbeat music on and makes them a late brunch, singing along to Wham's _Freedom_ while scrambling eggs and flitting back and forth between Joe and the stove. He's a barely contained ball of energy, which is a sharp change from the lethargy he was in yesterday. Perhaps all he needed was a good night's sleep and some lazy sex. Joe sighs at the bacon on his plate. Sometimes, he doesn't know how to relieve the flood of fondness pushing at his chest.

They go out for dinner that evening. It's another unusual thing added to this week's tally, because they are not fancy types like Nixon or Joe's trigger-happy maniac of a boss, yet George chooses a restaurant that's way above their usual homey diner. There's live jazz and a wine menu, and the food comes out in too small portions with too many decorations. It's very romantic though, which makes Joe suspicious again. Something is up. He looks around, expecting to catch the waiters in the middle of bringing him a surprise birthday cake or something equally flashy like champagne, but his eyes fall on a glimpse of skin behind a potted plant and he tilts his head, then gapes as the realization hits.

"Lip?" He calls out, laughing. The person hiding behind the leaves freezes, then Lipton reveals himself with a sheepish half-smile. His phone is in his hand. "What are you doing there?"

Both he and George stammer, staring at each other in panic. For God’s sake. There’s only one reason why Lipton would be lurking around them ready to take a video. Joe rolls his eyes. "Is this about the goddamn birthday movie?" George's shocked gaze locks on him. "Yeah, I know about it. Guarnere told me."

Lip and George share another look, then George's face regains its colour and he slumps back in his seat. "Oh damn, we're busted. When we were so close, right, Lip?"

A little too eager to give up, Joe thinks. But he may just be trying to speed through this topic to avoid revealing more about his pet project, who knows. George can be as unreadable as a man with a killer poker face sometimes because he has _so many_ things going on at once that it’s impossible to determine which one he’s thinking of. But the avoidance theory seems to be confirmed a second later, when George turns to Lip and invites him to join them in the same breath he uses to blabber on about Joe’s previous birthday party. Joe scoots his chair over to make place for Lip and curls his arm around the back of George’s. Lost in his own thoughts, he’s content to just listen to the conversation. What the hell did George put into that stupid movie?

They order dessert and George pokes at Joe’s thigh until he finally opens his mouth and tells one of his own stories. He thinks it’s just boring office stuff, nothing particularly interesting, but then, Lip turns red as a tomato and clears his throat.

"I apologise if you felt uncomfortable at work in the last few days." He says ruefully. "Ron is a little… possessive and he thought George and I had something going on. He was spying on you because he recognised you from George's Facebook and knew George would eventually pop up around you. I got him to admit it today."

"He was trying to catch me all week." George groans and drops his forehead to Joe's shoulder. "I was afraid for my life!"

"Don't be dramatic." Lip chuckles. Joe wants to tell him he's asking the impossible, but he can’t help but address the giant fucking news Lip dropped oh-so-casually on his head.

"Wait, you and Speirs?"

"Yep." Lipton presses his lips together in a small, self-deprecating smile. He's still blushing, but seems to gain momentum when neither Joe, nor George react reproachfully. In fact, George’s drinking his wine with such over-the-top concentration that Joe suspects he’s been on it. "But it's still new and we haven’t talked about… Just please don't mention it to him."

On normal days, Joe doesn't have a death wish, so he wouldn't even dream of talking to Speirs about the man's love life. He tells Lip so, and they pass the rest of their dinner with comfortable conversation. It’s not until he and George are walking back to the car, hand-in-hand, that Joe brings up the issue again.

"I didn't mean to be this jealous all week.” He apologises quietly. “I just thought you were pining for some jackass in secret."

George smiles, swings their hands back and forth as if they are children and bats his eyelashes at Joe exaggeratedly. "Only one jackass in my life."

* * *

**Sunday**

On Sunday afternoon, they drive down to the shore. They don’t go too often because Joe’s prosthesis isn’t waterproof enough for him to swim in it and he sure as hell won’t take it off in front of a bunch of fit surfers and sunbathing chicks. But George could probably convince a fish that it would enjoy the desert, so Joe goes and sits in the car with his navy swim shorts and worn beach towel, a can of coke in hand. Since it’s only the beginning of March, George assumes their usual spot - a bench in the sand close to the car park but half-hidden by a small hill - will be deserted.

It’s not. The weather has been strangely mild all day, goddamn climate change, and the beach is packed with college kids who have nothing better to do than horse around with each other and gawk at Joe's leg like it’s a fucking T-800 endoskeleton from The Terminator.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Joe barks at a group of pimpled jocks who keep glancing over at him from their spot near the pier.

"It's okay, calm down, they stare at everyone." George rubs his shoulders, but his voice is tight and they both know it’s not true. Joe’s going to get stares for the rest of his life, it’s a fact, he’ll need to get used to it. But it’s hard for someone who doesn’t enjoy the spotlight and can’t turn it in his favour the way George does. It wasn’t always like that, he told Joe. Fat kids are made fun of very early on - he adapted to be more fun than the jokes coming at his expense. It’s too late for Joe’s personality to change though - he can’t stand the attention.

They go home earlier than they planned and don't talk to each other until the lights are off and they are wrapped in the protective darkness of their bedroom, under their blankets. It means that George's in a bad mood. Joe hates seeing him sad. The world is such a bleak place without George’s voice to fill the void that he reaches out and strokes the back of his fingers down along George's spine until he turns to face Joe.

"Sorry." Joe says, pulling at George’s arm so that it’s draped over his chest while he lies on his back.

"Me too." George sighs. Usually, some kind of explanation comes, because an apology for George is never quite satisfying enough if he isn’t sure Joe understood his reasons. "I didn't think it through. Just wanted us to have a perfect day."

Joe could reply something sappy to that, but he’s too tired and he isn’t all that good at emotional sentiments anyway. "Next time."

George’s fingers fist in his shirt. "Joe, you gotta know that I love you. Same as before."

"I know." Joe soothes. "It's just hard to believe it sometimes."

He has been so lucky. Countless people get ditched after an accident leaves them damaged and unable to continue life in its original course. But George stayed with him through the worst, first, during his surgeries, then long hours at various hospitals, while learning to walk again, through his nightmares and those dark months when all Joe could think of was what he lost. It takes an enormous amount of care not to give up on a relationship while going through all that.

Less upset now, George lays his head on Joe’s shoulder and spends a moment drawing mindless patterns on Joe's chest, then squirms, pushing at Joe's pulled-up knee. "Remember Elvis?"

A quiet chuckle bursts out of Joe. "The king is dead." He says as solemnly as he can.

"You usurped his throne."

"I did, didn't I?" Elvis was a gag gift from one of George’s high school buddies years ago when George had a singer phase and performed in every school musical he could fit into his life. It was a body pillow with Elvis’ picture printed on it and George always slept with it between his legs until Joe came along. Getting the hint, Joe rearranges their position, straightening his leg and pulling George's over his hips. He strokes George’s thigh. "Better?"

"Yeah." They drift into a cozy lull, just enjoying the moment, but George props himself up again after a few seconds and puts his worst smolder on. _"Wise men say -"_

Jesus. Joe jerks and tries to cover George's mouth, but all he gets for his trouble is a giggle and a hand captured.

 _"- only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you._ " George grins and kisses the back of that hand.

Joe shakes his head. "We're lucky you didn't go for that music career."

George snickers, then his face softens and the curve of his lips straightens slowly. He presses his thumb to the line Joe's grin digs into his cheek. "It makes me happy when you smile." He murmurs. Joe casts his eyes down for a second, then back up.

George's face is uncharacteristically serious. "Will you marry me?"

The words hang in the air like the echo of an overly loud gong, hypnotic and ethereal. Joe’s numb all over from shock and it keeps resonating in him, _marry, marry…_ He has never thought that it would happen, he didn’t think he was worthy… They haven’t talked about marriage since his car crashed. He thought he lost that prospect forever, but here George is, still perfect and kind and everything Joe has ever wanted, and he’s asking Joe to be his until they die. Is this a dream?

"Joe?"

Joe folds himself into George and hides his face in his neck, hugging him harder than he should because he can’t believe he’s real and his words are real and he actually loves Joe this much.

"Aw, come on." George laughs and rubs his back, kisses his ear, his temple, his cheek. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, Georgie. Yes." Joe laughs, then sniffs, blinking rapidly to keep the uncontrollable wetness from spilling. "Fucking allergies."

"We don't have any flowers."

"It's the dust because you never clean up after yourself."

George brushes their lips together, and then they are sharing a slow, drawn-out kiss until it’s not making out anymore, just pressing their loopy smiles together and they can’t keep it up.

"Wait, wait, I actually have a ring. It was so hard to hide it from you, you have no idea." George wriggles free of Joe’s grabby hands and pulls it out of the sock drawer, wrapped in an old-fashioned handkerchief monogrammed as _RS._ Joe gives him a look. "Remind me to give this back to Lip."

"Do I wanna know?"

"It's a long story." George says with a tone that suggests he's dying to tell it. He’s flushed from excitement and joy, his hair is all mussed up, and he’s the most delightful thing Joe has seen in his life.

Joe settles back against the pillows and pulls him down until he rests his head on Joe's chest. "We have all the time in the world."

_~End~_

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**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think :)


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